


Do Not Go Gentle

by Dirkapitation



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Maze Runner (Movies)
Genre: Derek isn’t a failwolf, Erica and Boyd live, Everyone gets to say fuck at least once, F/M, Gen, Minho and Kira are related, Newt and Jackson become friends, Oh God There’s Two Of Them!, Scott McCall is a Good Friend in this one, Somehow, Stiles and Thomas are twin brothers, These tags are a bitch to write, Thomas and Stiles are litcherally unstoppable, and post movie 1, as a treat, author is asexual and dont believe horny people deserve rights, its my canon now, or WICKED, or the teen wolf writers, set post season 2, stiles and thomas are twins, the alpha pack dont stand a chance, there WILL be cuddle piles at some point, well he is but hes trying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25274719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dirkapitation/pseuds/Dirkapitation
Summary: It's the summer after the Daehler/Kanima/Gerard clusterfuck fiasco, and the Hale/McCall pack are still reeling from the aftermath.Just when the summer is turning out to be the respite everyone needed, The Sheriff gets a Phone Call.And Stile's missing brother, Steven, is suddenly back in town. He goes by Thomas, jumps at loud noises, seems to be the complete opposite of Stiles, and years apart and wide chasm of different experiences don't help in the bonding department either.But he's back, and every bit as smart as Stiles.How will two Stilinski's fare against the Alpha Pack, the Darach, or the last remnants of WICKED? How will the timeline spiral from what it once was?Find out in Do Not Go Gentle, A Maze Runner/ Teen Wolf Crossover!
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Everyone is platonic - Relationship, Minho & Newt & Thomas (Maze Runner), Minho & Newt (Maze Runner), Minho & Thomas (Maze Runner), Newt & Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45





	1. Catalyst: an agent that provokes a significant change or action.

The Stilinski family do not talk about Steven. 

Steven's name used to be Scezezepan, but Stile's twin used to go by Steven, just like Stiles still goes by Stiles. 

Stiles and Steven used to be StilesandSteven, thick as thieves, inseparable since birth, like a shadow they could touch or a mirror that could speak. 

StilesandSteven were about seven when it became Just Stiles, because Steven disappeared. 

Poof. 

Gone. 

One moment there, in the park, as they played, laughing, screaming, when Stiles turned around, maybe to go to the bathroom, maybe to go say hi to Scotty, and then.... 

It was just him. Just Stiles. 

A brother's distant memory, a mother's heartbreak, and a father's cold case. 

Sheriff Stilinski was deputy at the time, young, passionate. They looked everywhere for Steven, and for the other missing kids in the year 2002. They searched cameras, made posters, sent out amber alerts and prayed and prayed and prayed and looked and looked and looked until the case was cold, hard, dead, just like Steven was, probably. 

Some body in a ditch somewhere wearing Stile's face, who died alone and afraid and gone too soon, now isn't that just a shame, dear? And the funeral that wasn't a funeral passed in a blur, and soon the memory of Steven was absorbed into Stiles and it was Just Stiles. 

And Stiles became Stiles And Scott (but not StilesandScott, because no one could ever replace-), and then Mom started to die. 

Slowly, in increments, wasting away from what was officially called "frontotemporal dementia" but was really the doctor's nice way of saying that Stile's Mom was forgetting and ignoring and crying and screaming and laughing and accusing until her fragments became pieces and those pieces crumbled until his Mom was not his Mom, not Claudia, not anyone, who died forgetting ("Sczezepan, is that you?") 

Stiles got to see. The Sheriff did not. 

(Steven never got to see.) 

So, when the Sheriff reached for the bottle and drowned himself in late nights and late shifts, Stiles was too busy making sure the laundry got done, the dishes put away, the lunches packed and ready to remember Steven too much. 

His name became erased. Unspoken. 

It became the Sheriff and Just Stiles, no missing brother, no dead mom, just the two of them against the world with Melissa and Scott to make sure they ate once in a while. 

It was just them. 

Until about 11:05 pm, on a late shift in the Sheriff's car, when Noah Stilinski received a phone call.   
The phone call lasted about five minutes in total.   
The phone call came from an old jackass named Agent McCall.   
Agent McCall, who had some earth-shattering news.

The conversation went as follows:

"Is this Noah Stilinski?" Bored, a little cold, like he couldn't believe they had to have a conversation either. 

"Yes?" Cautious, annoyed. 

"Sheriff Stilinski, we have located your missing son, Szcezepan Stilinski. He was rescued using leaked information from a sub-organization labeled World In Catastrophe Kill-Zone Department, or WICKED, who were arrested on the charges of illegal and inhuman experimentation, child abuse and endangerment, crimes against humanity, kidnapping, murder, and misuse of government resources." 

"As last living guardian of Sczezepan 'Thomas' Stilinski, you are to be informed of his status and given the option of accepting him back into your legal care. He has been treated for and passed government mental and physical health tests and has sufficiently recovered from sustained injuries during his period as an experimented-upon person." 

"Do you, Noah Stilinski, hereby accept your status as Sczezepan 'Thomas' Stilinski''s legal guardian?" 

Agent McCall spoke as if he were reading off a script, like a customer service agent were returning a missing package instead of Noah's missing son. 

His son, who was alive. 

About forty-five seconds to two minutes were spent absorbing this information, the Sheriff's mind exploding with it, drowning in it, and grasped that last question like a lifeline. 

His skin was pale. Hands were shaking. 

"...Yes," he eventually gasped out, hoarse, desperate, his knuckles white against the phone, "Yes, yes I fucking accept, what the hell do you mean he's-Of course I-experimentation, what- where-when can I-" 

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions, Mr. Stilinski," Agent McCall interrupted, "but they will all be more than answered when you have arrived at this facility during your briefing with the other contacted guardians. Better to do it once." 

Agent McCall rattled off an address which Noah wrote down with shivering fingers, the black ink a barely legible sprawl on his notepad. It was eight hours away. His son was only eight hours away-

"Bring your other son, and other son only. I would appreciate if you kept this information strictly between those to whom it pertains to so that your son does not return overwhelmed and, more importantly, the media can be kept at bay until all of the remaining children are safely relocated." A hint of warning and annoyance, either at the media or at Noah, he couldn't tell anymore and didn't care to. 

"Of course, we will allow time for you to officially take a work leave and to prepare adequate dwelling for Thomas. You will be expected in three days." 

A pause. 

"For what it's worth," Agent McCall murmured, "I'm glad we've found your son." 

Click. 

On 11:10 pm, on a late shift in Sheriff's car, a five minute phone call became the catalyst. 

An earth shattering, life changing event that left Noah Stilinski sobbing in his car like he never allowed to for Claudia.

A few hours later, he explained the situation to his coworkers, and got two week paid leave. It was summer. Stile's didn't have school. He was sleeping over at Scott's house, as he so often did. 

Noah needed time. He would tell Stiles in the morning. 

For now, drove home. Took off his shoes. Ate some leftovers. Collapsed into bed, and slept without dreaming. 

He'd need all the rest he could get, come morning.


	2. Acclimate: become accustomed to a new climate or to new conditions.

The norm for returning to the Stilisnki household after a night at Scott's went as follows:

Stiles parked the jeep.

Stiles left the jeep, opened the door, heard no sounds of life, smelled no food cooking, saw no one but the scattered picture frames on the hallway.

Stiles hung his keys on the keyholder where they had rested for 15 years before Stiles had gotten his license and therefore Roscoe, a light blue 1980 CJ-5 Jeep that his mother wanted him to have. 

Stiles would trudge upstairs, either hear the sound of his dad snoring, or hear nothing but his own breathing, and do whatever it is he wanted to do in his room, mainly homework or video games, before getting started on house chores. 

However. 

When Stiles parked the jeep today after a night at Scott's, several things were not as they should be. 

When Stiles opened the door, he heard the sounds of pots being clanged against each other, smelled eggs and bacon and toast only-a-little-burned, and saw his father. Making breakfast. 

At noon. 

Stiles hung his keys on the keyholder and patted the keyholder as if to say "at least you haven't changed", and walked into the kitchen instead of upstairs, where he leaned against the wall and watched his father fumble his way through breakfast. 

Stiles mouthed a few baffled words that should not be repeated before he said eloquently, "Hey, dad, what? What is," Que wild gesturing to the entire kitchen and the plates on the table, "all of...this? Did something happen?"

Here is what Stiles noticed about his father: his white-knuckled grip on a pan with scrambled eggs, sweaty brow, haunted look. More than usual. His shaky hands, and, the obvious, the bacon on the table which better be turkey bacon-

His dad saw Stiles look at the bacon and before Stiles could comment he looked exasperated and replied, "Yes, Stiles, that is turkey bacon, and yes, something... something did happen, uh last night. You might wanna sit down for this."

Stiles plopped down on the seat and peered at the breakfast/lunch before taking a huge bite. It was good. and suspicious. 

He peered at his dad like he could pull out the secrets from his brain. 

The Sheriff sat down across from Stiles. Patted his thighs anxiously, as dads do when they're about to say something Big and Emotionally Charged. 

Stiles was starting to become Concerned. 

"What is- Dad what's all of this for? Did'ya get a promotion or something? Are you dating Melissa?? Because if so-"

"What-Stiles, no! No, I am not dating Melissa!" The Sheriff hissed, incredulous. 

"Just- Stiles. Listen, okay? And don't interrupt until I'm- until I'm finished saying what I have to say. This is like you, when you showed me the chessboard, okay? This is that level of serious."

Stiles froze, a bite of food half raised to his plate before he set it down, realizing that this was Serious. And Serious meant that this breakfast/lunch was either because of super good news, or supernaturally awful news. 

"Okay, dad." Stiles murmured, gesturing with his fork for him to continue. He didn't feel very hungry anymore. 

The Sheriff took a deep breath. Looked at the table. Sucked air through his teeth and glanced at the bottle of whiskey already out but untouched, not for this conversation, but wished that he didn't have to be sober for it.

He figured it'd be best to start from the beginning, like writing a report. 

"I got a phone call from Agent McCall yesterday." He eventually got out, still not looking at Stiles, but holding up a hand to stop him from speaking anyways.

Stiles, in a rare fit of obedience, clamped his mouth shut with an audible snap. 

"It's.......It was about, about...Steven. They found him, along with a couple of other teenagers, gave us an address, and are expecting us and only us in three days to...to take him, take him home." 

The Sheriff put a hand over his mouth and breathed, looking at the swirls on their wooden table like they held all the answers in their patterns. 

"...Steven?" Stiles whispered, pale. 

The Sheriff nodded. "He called him Thomas," he muttered. "Said they rescued him from, God Stiles, said they rescued him from some organization called WICKED that had a pretty long list of crimes. Like kidnapping, for one." 

"....Thomas." Stiles repeated. Dazed. Feeling a bit sick. 

"Mhm." The Sheriff got up, got two whiskey glasses, and set them down with a thud. He poured them both a shot, took his own shot, and poured himself a second. 

Stiles grasped his glass with shaking fingers and held it, but didn't drink. He appreciated the gesture though. 

The two sat in silence for a time that felt like an eternity and seconds at the same time. 

Stiles stared at the swirling liquid in his hands. 

"...You said that they were expecting us in three days? To-what? Get a room ready? Get- get used to the fact that-that Steven-that Thomas, my brother, is alive?"

"I believe so, yeah. I was thinking we could convert the office into a bedroom, make it nice." 

Stiles nodded along, humming, but feeling like his soul was drifting away from his body, just a bit. 

Steven was alive. Steven was alive-

Stiles barely even remembered the guy. Not anymore, just that he was there one day and then wasn't. 

His name had gone unspoken for so long that this felt like a dream, though Stiles had no idea it it was a good one or not. 

"So- so three days, right? To get the room ready? Clothes, he'll need clothes, shoes, bedsheets, uh, we can keep the desk in there if we push it to the side-"

"Stiles," Sheriff interrupted gently. 

"Yeah?"

"Let's just keep it between us for now, alright? I don't want him to come back and for everyone to treat him like some sort of freak show, alright? And that includes Scott."

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, because Scotty, before closing it after more than two seconds of thought. 

"Yeah, alright," he muttered. 

Another beat of silence. Stiles thought "screw it" and downed his drink, only coughing a little. The Sheriff was on his third glass. 

Three days. Eight Hours. And then Steven/Thomas would be Home.

_________

The agents who "rescued" Thomas and the other Gladers were assholes. 

This was a fact, just like the sky was blue, Thomas's name was Thomas, not Steven, and that the Glade was all just a bunch of amoral scientists hooking them all up to tubes and needles to study their brains for some cure. A cure for a disease that didn't even exist. 

Because there was no Scorch, no Cranks, just a bunch of dead teenagers who died for nothing and the rest of them stuffed into another facility for "healing". Which was exactly on par with how the Creators treated them Before, but it still sucked.

A lot. 

When the men-in-black stormed in and brought them out with the helicopter, Thomas was too numb to protest, Chuck's blood still cooling on his fingers, and his death still playing on repeat in his brain. 

They brought them, all nine of them, to a hospital in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods. Open windows, lots of flowers. Smiling staff with pity in their eyes, and agents who looked at Thomas weirdly. 

Thomas, Newt, and Minho were their own little trio, with Frypan, Clint, Winston, and Zart off in their own group. Billy and another kid, Joe, were almost never seen without each other, the only two from the thirty-something other Glader's who came with them that day to the Griever Hole.

Nine. 

Nine out of Fifty-some odd Gladers, who were there for three whole years, though the FBI agents said it was actually longer, that the Creators spent years preparing them beforehand before they actually sent them in, one at a time.

Other kids, from other Glades, were rescued. Group B had about four left. All-female except for a scrawny kid named Aris who the girls never let out of their sight but could play a mean game of chess, when Thomas was bored enough to play him. 

They gave them clean white clothes, warm beds, hot showers, and tests.

So. many. tests. 

Tests like sitting in a room with a psychologist and answering question after question, test like drawing vials and vials of blood, tests like physical therapy and cold walls- 

Thomas was sick of it. 

The silver lining was that the people who rescued them, FBI or whatever, weren't stupid enough to separate them. Not again, not after everything. 

The first few weeks were a blur, where the only things that felt real were Minho's desperate hugs and Newt's ragged voice in the night, who chanted the dead Gladers' names like a prayer. 

Days passed and time held no meaning for the rescued kids anymore.

But today, Thomas had his daily session with the FBI guy, Agent McCall, who led the whole operation. 

"Good morning Thomas," he said, preparing himself a coffee by the table which supported a machine. 

As far as interrogation rooms went, this one was almost pleasant, set up to be like a hotel/office instead of bare walls and table like they used to have. 

As the FBI proved themselves to be trustworthy and capable, and the Gladers proved to be less volatile/likely to stab them all, their accommodations became much better. 

Until they got this room, with the comfortable leather chairs that Thomas sprawled himself out on, the rich mahogany desk, yellow walls, big window in the back, maroon carpeting, coffee making machine, the whole shebang. 

It was kinda bullshit, in Thomas's most humble opinion. 

"Hey," he said back so as to not be impolite. 

Agent McCall sighed and placed Thomas's cup (milk and three sugars) on his side of the table before sitting down. 

The man threaded his fingers together so he could rest his chin on them, absorbing the silence. Not speaking, just observing. 

Thomas both hated and respected the man for his patience, the way he could just sit and let Thomas set the pace for the day, unlike the other agents. 

In the beginning, Agent McCall sniped at him like he was expecting Thomas's snark and knew exactly how to deal with it, which was weird. They argued back and forth like equals, like they hated each other, and they did, at first. 

But then Agent McCall became the one that rescued him, the one that kept him together, and one day Thomas overheard him talking with superiors, fighting them, fighting *for* them, and Thomas had no choice but to concede that, yes, Agent McCall was on their side. 

Then, somehow, the barbs became banter, and the banter became silence, one of mutual respect. 

Thomas reached for his coffee and took a sip.   
It was nice. 

"Today is going to be a little bit different today," Agent McCall started. 

"Different?" Thomas, asked, taking another tiny sip. 

"Yes, in that you will be the first to be informed of a new development. As you are aware, all of you were kidnapped from your homes from the year 2002. I have been tasked with your recovery and, eventually, your relocation." 

Thomas nodded along, though he raised a brow at the "relocation" bit. 

"You have all improved significantly from your time here at the lodge, and have passed all our physical and mental evaluations, bar the obvious signs of PTSD. My superiors and I feel that it is time to initiate the relocation phase-back to your legal guardians." 

Agent McCall paused and took a sip of his coffee (black) to gauge his reaction. 

Thomas, predictably, sat up from his leisurely sprawl and set his coffee down on the table so he could sit up straight without spilling it, suddenly much more attentive. 

"Wait, what? When-when exactly is this happening? I mean-what?" 

Agent McCall nodded sagely and endeavored to not smile at Thomas's reaction. He had a feeling the teen wouldn't appreciate it, or the ploy to get Thomas to spit out his coffee. It didn't work, but, worth a shot. 

"All of you are still minors and, therefore, it would be best to return you to your legal guardians, should they pass the screening test. And, most of them did. All of you are being informed today, as we speak. You should expect your family to be here in two day's time for a briefing. After that, well, it's to be expected for you all to return with them." 

Thomas gaped at him, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. 

He licked his lips and reached for his coffee, this time with unsteady hands.   
It was still nice. Just tasted a little bitter in his mouth, now. 

"...So, what? This is it? This is the part where we're separated, is that it? To-to go home with strangers we don't even remember, much less trust?" 

Thomas was standing up now, coffee slammed on the table. It sloshed in the cup but didn't spill. 

Agent McCall looked up at the aggravated Stilinski, eyes blazing in defiance, fist clenched, and thought, 'There he is. There's Stiles.' 

"They aren't strangers," he corrected, "they're your original parents, or, parent, in your case. And a twin brother." 

Agent McCall took out a folder from the desk and handed it to Thomas, who promptly snatched it out of his hands and skimmed it. 

"Noah Stilinski, Sheriff of Beacon Hills, California, and his son, Stiles Stilinski. Your brother." 

Thomas's jaw clenched as he rolled on the balls of his feet, resisting the urge to pace or run or scream at Agent McCall until he was blue in the face. 

There, staring back at him, was a middle aged man and his own face, though it looked younger, and with a buzzcut. Their information posted in neat script, unassuming, like the information didn't leave Thomas breathless. 

"...You said they're coming in two days?" 

"That's correct." 

"And what about- what about Minho? Or Newt? Or-or Frypan?" 

"Minho's family are the Yukimura family, currently based in New York. Newt's family are the Wilcox, in London, and Frypan's are the Jefferson's in Mississippi. The rest are likewise scattered throughout America, I presume." 

"Will we be allowed to stay in contact, at least?" 

"Should you choose to, with the advent of the Internet. Rest assured, you can all figure something out during the debriefing when your families come to reclaim you." 

"That's not-that's not enough, I can't leave them, I can't leave without them, I-" 

"Thomas," Agent McCall interrupted, as gently as he could, "you all have to go home sometime. You were never meant to stay here forever, away from the outside world, with no future." 

The folder crumpled in Thomas's grip. 

"...I can't do this without them," he whispered, eyes downcast. 

"You won't. This is just temporary, Thomas, all of this is. Another stage in your transition. If anyone can figure out a way to keep your friends close, it's you." 

Thomas swallowed. Nodded. 

"...Is that it?" 

"For now. Dismissed. And take your coffee with you." 

Agent McCall pulled out some paperwork and started working on it, ignoring Thomas completely. 

Thomas took the cup numbly and staggered out of the office. 

Two days.

Two days until Thomas met his family again. And he would leave with them, without his friends.


End file.
